The Substance of Things Hoped For
by Adastra
Summary: While pretending to be a cab driver, Jarod tries to solve a murder. Unable to escape unresolved thoughts about Kyle, he contemplates spiritual matters. Sydney and Miss Parker have their own issues to deal with. Set between seasons 1 and 2.


The Substance of Things Hoped For   
by A.  
  
=-=-=  
  
Note: This story takes place between the episodes "The Dragon House" and "Back From the Dead Again" (i.e. between seasons one and two).  
  
=-=-=  
  
Miss Parker sat staring at Broots. She held her usual expression of hard scorn, a look that made one think that walking barefoot across salt-coated glass would be less painful than crossing her. Ash fell from the tip of the cigarette she held steadily between her fingers, but she took no notice. She just sat and stared. Broots shifted uncomfortably knowing Miss Parker was there, but he said nothing and did not look back, trying to keep focused on his task at the computer, tracking down Jarod.   
  
Miss Parker continued to stare.   
  
Sighing, Broots broke from his work and turned around to face her, "Um... Miss Parker... is there something you need?" Broots asked, a nervous sweat breaking out on his brow.   
  
Miss Parker glanced coolly at her watch. "I was right." She said as she stubbed out her cigarette in an already full ashtray.   
  
"Right?" Broots asked, confused.   
  
"I bet Sydney that I could break your concentration in less than ten minutes without saying a word or getting up from my chair."   
  
"Sydney wouldn't make a bet like that," Broots said, a bit hurt at the thought that maybe the psychiatrist had actually made such a wager with Miss Parker.   
  
"You're right, he wouldn't, but I still win... with three minutes to spare." She grinned at him and Broots realized exactly how a lioness smiles at her prey before making the kill. Miss Parker stood and moved in close to him, purposely invading his personal space. She looked at the computer screen, "How close are you?"   
  
Broots looked back at the computer screen, "Not close at all, I'm afraid Jarod's last clue wasn't very helpful."   
  
"Of course it wasn't," she snapped, "Wonder Boy doesn't want to make it easy for us or he would send all his mail with a return address, moron."   
  
She picked up a small box sitting next to the computer and opened it. It had arrived the day before, addressed to Sydney. A ripe, red apple sat nestled inside the box with some tissue paper and a note that read: 'An apple a day keeps the doctor away... and Miss Parker, and Mr. Broots.'   
  
At that moment, Sydney entered the computer room. There was a package tucked under his arm.   
  
"Good morning, Miss Parker, Broots," he said acknowledging them in turn with a nod of his head.   
  
"Nice of you to show up to work," Miss Parker commented sarcastically and then looked at the package Sydney held, "What's that?"   
  
"I hope you will excuse my tardiness, Miss Parker," Sydney said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "As much as I would have loved to have been here to watch you heckle Broots, I thought picking this up might be more useful. I believe it's another gift from Jarod."   
  
"Give me that," she growled, discarding of the package in her hands and snatching up the one Sydney held. She noticed that it had already been opened, and she lifted the flaps of the box, peering inside. She reached in and pulled out some clear plastic tubing, "What the hell?" she muttered.   
  
"Who do you think would need that?" Sydney asked, obviously knowing the answer himself.   
  
Her mind processed quickly and an image of a bald man with plastic tubes in his nostrils, providing oxygen to him from a small tank he toted behind, flashed in her mind. "Mr. Raines," she said. The man now lied in the infirmary with severe burns covering most of his body. She savored the delightful possibility that he might yet die. When the ballistics report came in, she would have to thank whoever had fired the bullet that had produced the explosion of his oxygen tank. Miss Parker reached inside the box again and pulled out the note. "Tell Mr. Raines that I'm breathing freer than he ever will." She tossed the note aside, "What are we now? His personal message service?"   
  
Sydney shrugged, "I don't know what he means by the note. He could just want to rub salt in Raines' wounds, but I doubt it."   
  
"Um... excuse me," Broots said timidly.   
  
Ignoring the tech, Miss Parker continued to talk to Sydney, "If Jarod wants old Wheezy to get a message then he can address his mail to him and not to us. We're meant to read it."   
  
"Excuse me," Broots said again, this time more strongly.   
  
Miss Parker looked at him icily, "What?"   
  
"Apple... breathing free... don't you get it?" Broots asked.   
  
"Cough it up or choke it down, Broots," Miss Parker said impatiently.   
  
"The Big Apple. And the Statue of Liberty, you know, 'Give me your tired, you weak, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.'"   
  
Understanding flickered across Miss Parker's face. Striding back to her chair, she picked up the jacket that complemented her gray pants suit, and shrugged it on. To Sydney and Broots she said, "Start spreading the news, boys, we're going to New York."   
  
=-=-=   
  
Ignoring the sprinkling of warm rain, Jarod flipped open his red notebook and glanced through the clippings that he had taped onto the pages inside. Headlines read: "Taxi Robberies on the Rise", "Cab Company Owner-Driver Killed in Botched Robbery", "No Leads in Cab Driver Robbery-Murder". He flipped to the last page. "Hundreds Turn Out for Slain Cab Driver's Funeral." The last piece was dated two days previously.   
  
He shifted his eyes from his notebook to the gray marble headstone several feet in front of him. Water trickled down the front of the stone, leading Jarod's eyes down to read the carved letters. "Shawn Delanie. Born July 22, 1965. Died July 18, 1997. Beloved husband and father, friend to many."   
  
Jarod slipped the notebook into his inside jacket pocket to prevent it from becoming too wet, and walked slowly around the grave to the marker. He placed his hands on the damp, cool marble. "I wish I could have saved you, Shawn," he whispered, "For your wife, for your children, for your many friends." Jarod could hear Sydney's voice in his mind, gently but firmly admonishing him, 'You can't save everyone'. Jarod shook his head and commented, "But I still wish that I could."   
  
"Wish that you could what?"   
  
Jarod glanced up, startled out of his reverie by a stranger holding an umbrella. Jarod assessed the stranger quickly. Tall, black hair generously peppered with gray, a little heavy around the stomach, light brown skin, and the hint of a Latin American accent in his voice. But, perhaps most importantly, he was clothed all in black except for the white collar exposed in front of his neck. Jarod nodded to the newcomer, acknowledging him.   
  
"I wish that I could have known him, Father." He walked toward the priest and extended a hand, "My name is Jarod."   
  
The priest reached out with his own hand and gave Jarod a solid, friendly hand shake, "My name is Father Juan Valdez... please, no jokes about Colombian Coffee, I have heard them all."   
  
"Jokes about Colombian Coffee?" Jarod asked, puzzled.   
  
"You know, the coffees that come in a can? The advertisements with Juan Valdez and his burro?"   
  
"Ohhhh, okay," Jarod said, feigning understanding and mentally filing away Colombian Coffee for future inquiry.   
  
Father Valdez redirected the conversation, "So you didn't know Shawn. May I ask why then...?"   
  
"I recently went to work for Delanie-May Taxi. I thought it would be appropriate to pay my respects. According to his business partner and my new boss, Curtis May, he was a wonderful human being. I'm sorry I couldn't know him."   
  
Father Valdez nodded and turned to place a hand on the grave marker, "Yes, he was a good man. He worked incredibly hard to build the taxi company with Curtis, to make it succeed. And he always found time to make it to church and help with some of our programs. Shawn wanted so much to give something lasting to the community."   
  
"Are you close to the family, Father? Are they okay? Curtis told me that Shawn has two little girls."   
  
"Walk with me, Jarod," Father Valdez said, and held his umbrella up a bit, offering Jarod a place under it. Jarod obliged him and as they walked, the priest began to speak. "I was close to Shawn and his parents, but not really to his wife or children. The twin girls, Jane and Maria, are only four years old. Shawn would sometimes bring them to services, but not often. I don't know Rose, his wife, very well, I'm afraid." He voice sounded sad.   
  
"She didn't attend church with him?"   
  
"No, she wasn't a religious woman. I do know the marriage had hit rocky times. I offered them counseling, but she refused," Father Valdez paused for a few moments and then continued, "Shawn did not spend as much time with his family as perhaps he should have. I think that was hard on Rose." Father Valdez looked at Jarod, "Shawn loved them though, more than anything. Everything he put into his business and into this community was to try and make sure that they had good lives. Family was important to Shawn, he just sometimes had a hard time showing it to them."   
  
Jarod nodded, "Thank you, Father, for letting me know him a little."   
  
"I hope that in a way, I can keep his memory alive," Father Valdez said softly. They were quiet for a few moments then Father Valdez asked, "So you are working for Delanie-May now. I hope you will be careful, Jarod, they still have not caught the robber who killed Shawn."   
  
"I am confident the murderer will be found," Jarod commented, but was sure to add, "But I am careful... everyone is more careful now. We check-in regularly on our radios letting the office dispatcher know where we are."   
  
"That's good, I am glad of it," Father Valdez said seriously. Then the priest asked in a quizzical tone, "Are you living in the neighborhood?"   
  
"I am boarding with Mrs. Ruth Fortenbauer..."   
  
"Ah yes, Ruth's a good woman though with a fair temper."   
  
"That's what I hear, but I've managed to stay on her good side," Jarod said and then added with a touch of delight, "She is a wonderful cook."   
  
Father Valdez looked at Jarod as if he had just proclaimed that Martians had landed on the Earth and were hoping they could borrow a cup of sugar.   
  
"No, really!" Jarod insisted, "Last night she made chili con hotdogs, it was excellent."   
  
Father Valdez continued to look at him strangely but finally shrugged and said, "Well, to each his own," he paused then queried, "Will I be seeing you at Mass?"   
  
Jarod quickly shook his head and said uncomfortably, "Uh, no, father, I, uh, I'm not really..." Jarod was saved from further explanation when his watch started beeping. He glanced down at it, "My shift starts in half an hour," he said, "I have to go." Jarod again extended a hand to the priest, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Father."   
  
Giving Jarod a strong handshake, Father Valdez replied sincerely, "Likewise, Jarod."   
  
"Can I drive you anywhere?" Jarod offered.   
  
"Oh, no, no thank you. I have services to attend to here in a short while."   
  
Jarod nodded and the two parted company. After walking only about ten feet, Jarod suddenly turned around and called, "Father Valdez!" The priest turned and looked at him expectantly. "Even though I'm not Catholic," Jarod said, "I was wondering if it might be all right if I came by to talk sometime? You seem like someone I could talk to."   
  
"Of course," Father Valdez replied, "Saint Sebastian's. I am usually in the church office in the later part of the evening. Can you come then?"   
  
"Yes, thank you, Father, I will!"   
  
Jarod waved to Father Valdez and hurried to where he had parked his taxicab.   
  
=-=-=   
  
"Where should I set up the computer, Miss Parker?"   
  
"Anywhere that isn't in my way, Broots," Miss Parker answered with sweet sarcasm between puffs of her cigarette.   
  
Broots set some of the plastic covered equipment he had been carrying onto the oak coffee table in the living room of the apartment. Droplets of rainwater dripped onto wood, and Broots wiped them away with his sleeve. He looked up at Miss Parker, questioning her with his eyes.   
  
"Nuh uh," she said, shaking her head and then pointed to the kitchen. "Use the table in there."   
  
Broots nodded and said, "Yes, Miss Parker." He picked up the equipment again and lugged it into the kitchen. Two sweepers entered the apartment also carrying computer equipment. She looked at them and jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen.   
  
Miss Parker settled down on the sofa, getting some ash on the brushed leather surface. She didn't care. She took a long drag from her cigarette and exhaled slowly, closing her eyes as she did so.   
  
"The Centre has certainly spared no expense in securing this apartment for us," a familiar voice commented.   
  
Miss Parker opened her eyes to see Sydney standing and staring at the panoramic city view offered by the living room's broad floor to ceiling window. She straightened up and extinguished what was left of her cigarette.   
  
"All this," she said, spreading her arms wide, "is not just for our benefit, Syd. This apartment is usually reserved for clients. None happened to require it just now so here we are."   
  
"And here we shall remain until something comes along to help us in our search," Sydney said, sitting down in a chair opposite Miss Parker. "We know Jarod is in the city, but with the millions of people here, it will be like trying to find a needle in a haystack."   
  
"Wrong. Since he is pretending to be one of them, it will be like trying to find a needle in a stack of needles."   
  
"So why are we here? Broots could probably conduct his computer searches more efficiently from Blue Cove than here."   
  
Miss Parker rose and walked to the living room's expansive window, and gazing out at the dismally warm and rainy city, she answered, "I'm hoping he will slip up. We just kept him from seeing his mother and sister. We caused his brother's death..."   
  
"Raines ordered Kyle's death," Sydney insisted.   
  
Without looking at him, Miss Parker said firmly, "Raines works for the Centre, we work for the Centre. Whatever feel-good-save-the-little-guy adventure he is on now, I believe that Jarod is still going to have that on his mind."   
  
"You're hoping he is going to try and get back at us? That he blames us?"   
  
Miss Parker turned and smiled coldly, "I'm counting on it, Syd."   
  
=-=-=   
  
Jarod sat in his taxicab flipping through another red notebook in which he had pasted more information he had gathered about Shawn Delanie's murder. There didn't appear to be a pattern in recent robberies other than most occurred with a gun being used to threaten the driver. But guns were common enough. The bullets used to kill Shawn Delanie indicated that the caliber of weapon used to kill him, nine millimeter, was not unusual. Of Shawn's co-workers, Jarod had figured that Curtis May, the co-founder of the company, had the most motive, but deeper investigation found that in his will, Shawn had left his half of the company to his wife and not to his business partner. From there, Jarod had asked around and checked computer records about Rose Delanie. From all accounts, Rose was a good wife and devoted mother though, according to Sheila, one of the company dispatchers, she had come in a couple of times angry at Shawn for his late working hours. That was perfectly understandable. She had not sought to turn a profit from her husband's death. She had received a small life insurance benefit to pay funeral expenses and help settle a couple of debts, but nothing huge. She had not sought to sell her half of the company to Curtis, but had, actually, expressed an interest in helping to run it.   
  
While still pondering his limited information, the back door of the cab opened and a large man in rain moistened business suit stepped inside, pulling a dripping briefcase in with him.   
  
"La Guardia Airport!" He barked, "And make it fast will ya? I'm already late."   
  
Frustrated and jolted from his thoughts, Jarod closed notebook together and tossed it on the seat next to him. He glanced at the dashboard clock. 2:05 pm, it read. Another three and a half hours before his shift ended. Jarod popped open the glove compartment and pulled out a clean, white hand towel. He turned and handed it to the man, who took it with surprise, not expecting the gesture.   
  
"Thank you," he said, genuinely, and wiped off his hands and face. He added, "I never got service like this before."   
  
Grinning, Jarod said, "You're welcome." He switched on the windshield wipers and the meter, and, glancing in the rearview mirror, he said further, "You might want to buckle your seatbelt. You see, I've only been doing this for a few days and I've never been to La Guardia before, but I've seen a map and I'm betting I can get there in record time!"   
  
The passenger did not even have a chance to comment as the cab peeled away from the curb, tires squealing on the wet pavement.   
  
=-=-=   
  
Jarod poured water in the coffee maker in the small kitchen that served as a break room at the headquarters of the Delanie-May Taxi Company. The water filtered through into the glass pitcher in the bottom. The door opened and one of Jarod's co-workers entered. She was a small woman, about five feet tall, and had graying blonde hair bound into a braid that ran to the middle of her back. She removed her thick glasses and wiped them with the edge of her shirt.   
  
"You going home, Jarod?" she asked.   
  
"In a little while, Sheila. I thought I'd make some coffee for the night shift drivers."   
  
"I'm sure they'll appreciate that," she said smiling. Jarod poured some into a mug and handed it to her. "Thanks," she said as she accepted the cup and sat down at the room's small, blue Formica table. She set the mug down to let its contents cool a little.   
  
Jarod asked, "When do you head out?"   
  
"In a few hours, I normally leave about now, six o'clock, but I think I'll just work a little bit more. It's not like I have anything to do at home so a few more hours in the dispatch office can only help, right?" She looked away from his eyes, casting her own to the floor, and picked up the steaming coffee cup. "Sometimes I think... well, I think that if I had been there for Shawn..."   
  
Jarod pulled the other chair close to her and sat down next to her, placing a comforting arm around her shoulders, "What happened to Shawn is not your fault."   
  
"He's the one who hired me three years ago. I'd just been through a tough divorce, I didn't think I would ever get back on me feet, but Shawn helped me. That's the kind of man that he was," her voice quivered, "And now he's dead. If I hadn't sent him on that last call, if I had stayed around instead of going home..."   
  
"Sheila," Jarod said gently, "The only one responsible for this is the person who put the gun to Shawn Delanie's head, and fired. You shouldn't feel that you're to blame for someone else's actions."   
  
She sniffed and wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her free hand, "Of course, you're right, Jarod, but I can't help what I feel."   
  
"I understand," he said sympathetically, "When the killer is found, maybe that will bring you some peace."   
  
Sheila nodded and raised the coffee cup to her lips, taking a sip of its contents. She made a disgusted face, "Ugh, what kind of coffee is this?"   
  
Looking slightly abashed Jarod asked, "It's not good?"   
  
Sheila shook her head, "Good is certainly not the word I would use to describe it."   
  
Seemingly puzzled, Jarod said, "I thought that if I blended coffee that was good to the last drop with coffee that was the best part of waking up and the richest coffee in the world, it would make an even better coffee."   
  
Almost laughing, Sheila asked, "You mixed Maxwell House, Folger's, and Yuban together?"   
  
"And it's decaffeinated," Jarod added with a helpful tone.   
  
This time Sheila did laugh, "Why don't you go home, Jarod, and I will brew a new pot with fresh ground beans with caffeine. You're not going to make any friends around here with canned coffee and decaf to boot." She chuckled again.   
  
Jarod shrugged and acquiesced, "All right, if you say so. Good night, Sheila."   
  
"Night, Jarod, and thanks for the laugh, I needed it," she said before turning to clean out the coffee pot.   
  
Before leaving the kitchen, Jarod picked up the mug she had left sitting on the table, and took a quick sip of it. He couldn't fight the grimace that crossed his face as he pushed open the kitchen door and exited the kitchen.   
  
=-=-=   
  
Resting on the bed in the room that Ruth Fortenbauer had rented to him, Jarod stared vacantly at the ceiling. He had been contemplating Shawn Delanie's death, trying to run a simulation in his mind, a task he could usually complete with no problem. But he could not focus. Thoughts and emotions he had shoved to the back of his mind were fighting to grab his attention. Those thoughts were about his family: his mother, his sister, but mostly about his brother, Kyle.   
  
Closing his eyes, Jarod listened to the sound of the summer shower outside. He wished his room had an air conditioner; the sticky temperature only amplified his frustration. Since Jarod could not focus his mind, he tried to keep all thoughts away. But Jarod could not keep his mind empty, regardless of how hard he tried. An image of a van erupting in flames burned into his mind and he could hear himself screaming "No!", completely helpless to do anything to save Kyle. Kyle had never known peace, having been manipulated by Mr. Raines since childhood to twist his innocence into socio-pathic inclinations.   
  
"I hope you're at peace now, little brother, where ever you are," Jarod whispered shakily then sat up and opened his eyes. The metal case containing the documentation of his life, the Digital Simulation Archive, sat open next to him on the bed. Jarod selected one of the DSA discs, inserted it into the player, and pressed play to watch a segment of his bleak life at the Centre.   
  
Ten year old Jarod sat at a table with documents and photographs along with the file folder they came in were spread in front of him. In his hands, Jarod held a small photograph. He stared at it intently, his eyes focused carefully in deep concentration.   
  
"What are you studying, Jarod?"   
  
The voice belonged to Sydney, speaking as he entered the room. Jarod started suddenly and quickly put the picture he had been looking at face down on the table.   
  
"I was just reviewing a file to help me prepare for this afternoon's simulation," Jarod said.   
  
"Oh?" Sydney said a bit surprised. Jarod rarely exhibited eagerness for his work. "I'm glad to see you're so focused, Jarod." Sydney came to the table and leaned over next to the boy, glancing at the papers and photographs. His eyes rested on the upside down photograph, he reached for it when Jarod put his hand on top of Sydney's, halting it.   
  
"That doesn't go with this file, Sydney," Jarod confessed.   
  
Sydney raised his eyes, questioning, "What does it belong with?"   
  
"It belongs to you. I took it," he raised his hand off Sydney's, "Please don't be angry." He looked down and Sydney picked up the photograph and looked at it. He clenched his jaw for a moment and then relaxed it. He put a hand on Jarod's shoulder and the boy looked up at him.   
  
"I know you don't do things without a reason, Jarod," he said gently, but then more firmly, "So tell me why you took the picture of my brother Jacob and I at our first communion."   
  
"It was part of your faith, Sydney, in God, right?"   
  
"That's correct, Jarod," Sydney answered, unsure of where this was leading.   
  
"Well, I was wondering... what exactly is God?"   
  
Sydney was quiet for several moments, thinking of how to respond, and finally said, "That is a complex topic, Jarod. God is different things to different people."   
  
"What is God to you?"   
  
Sydney chuffed and said, "I don't know, Jarod. God has meant different things to me throughout my life."   
  
Ever curious, Jarod continued his inquiry, "Well, when you were my age, what did it mean?"   
  
"When I was your age..." Sydney paused and rocked back on his heels, looking up at the ceiling in thought before looking back down at young Jarod. "When I was your age, I thought that God was a protector, that He protected Jacob and I, and that He looked over the rest of our family in Heaven."   
  
"Why would God do that? What made you think that?"   
  
"God did everything because of His love. God's love was supreme and divine," Sydney answered, "My parents taught Jacob and I to believe God was always with us."   
  
"What made you believe in something that you couldn't see or hear or touch?"   
  
"Faith, Jarod, just faith. It is something which defies logic and empirical evidence."   
  
Jarod thought for a moment, "Well, what did you think would happen if you didn't believe in God?"   
  
Sydney smiled humorlessly, "I thought that when I died, my soul would go to Hell."   
  
"Sydney, do you think I will go to Hell if I don't believe in God."   
  
"No, Jarod, I don't," Sydney said quickly, and then added as he picked one of the documents off of the table, "Why don't I help you to continue preparing for the sim?"   
  
"Do you think you're going to Hell?"   
  
Sydney glanced at Jarod uncomfortably. "Jarod, these are matters with which you need not concern yourself."   
  
"Why not? Don't you think I have a soul, Sydney?"   
  
After sliding the photograph into his breast pocket, Sydney picked up another document from the table letting his eyes scan the information. Ignoring Jarod's question, Sydney simply said, "Let's get to work."   
  
"But..."   
  
"Let's get to work," Sydney repeated, casting a decisive look at Jarod.   
  
Jarod pressed stop on the DSA player and pulled out the silver disc. He looked at it between his fingers, "How could you leave me wondering, Sydney?" His thoughts turned to brother again. What had happened to Kyle's soul? What would happen to his own?   
  
=-=-=   
  
Staring at the jeweled lights of the sprawling city and sucking mindlessly on a cigarette brought Miss Parker a little peace. Sydney was in one of the bedrooms, reading. Broots was at the kitchen table working at the computer. The two sweepers that they had brought along were in the dining area playing a quiet game of gin. Standing by herself in the dimly lit living room allowed Miss Parker the chance to feel that she was the only one in the universe. The black night and the city lights outside might have well been outer space stretching between herself and lonely infinity. The rain had abated for a time, but small droplets of water still clung to the glass, refracting the city lights and creating hundreds of miniature cosmos. In them all, she was still alone. A loud buzzing sound invaded her tranquility, and caused Miss Parker to jolt in surprise. She looked at her watch. 8:17. She wondered who would be stopping by.   
  
She yelled to one of the sweepers, "Sam, get the door!"   
  
"Yes, Miss Parker!" She heard him reply from the other room. Miss Parker continued to look out the window when the lights in the living room suddenly brightened, creating a glare against the glass that made it impossible to see outside. She turned around to see who had turned them on.   
  
"Broots!" She growled.   
  
He looked up at her, his hand still on the light switch, confused by her apparent irritation, "What?"   
  
She waved her hand dismissively, "Nothing."   
  
Sydney, roused from his reading by the doorbell, came into the living room as well as Sam and the other sweeper. Sam held a package in his hands and set it down on the coffee table.   
  
"What is that?" Sydney asked.   
  
"Unless you've mistaken me for someone wearing a red cape and blue tights, Syd, you should know that I don't have x-ray vision," she looked to Sam, "Who delivered it?"   
  
"There was no one at the door, Miss Parker, just the package."   
  
They all looked at it. It was cylindrically shaped and wrapped in brown paper. "Well then, there's just one way to solve this little mystery." She sat down on the cream colored suede sofa, extinguished her cigarette in an ashtray, pulled the package in front of her, and quickly tore open the paper to reveal a brown coffee can with a small note taped to the lid. She unstuck the note, opened it, and read aloud.   
  
"Welcome to New York. Have a nice stay. Signed J." She tossed the note aside and asked no one in particular, "Why does Jarod always know every move we make?" She shook her head, aggravated, and picked up the coffee can, "Well at least he gave us something to help us stay awake." She pulled the lid off the can and looked inside. She reached a hand in and pulled out several pieces of paper. Her eyes scanned them quickly. "Jesus Christ," she muttered and upended the contents of the can onto the coffee table. Everyone moved a little closer, curious. Miss Parker turned to the sweepers, "*You* can go now." Unquestioning, they retreated into the kitchen. She motioned for Broots and Sydney to come sit down.   
  
Sydney scanned his eyes over the pamphlets and flyers that had been folded inside the can. Sydney listed some of the information he saw, "Hare Krishnas, Baptists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Latter Day Saints, Muslims, Neo-Pagans..."   
  
Miss Parker chuckled, "So the lab rat's gone and found religion. You're his head shrinker, Syd, what does it mean?"   
  
"Jarod never knew much about religion in the Centre. What he had was a vague, objective understanding from information provided for certain simulations. Perhaps now, in the outside world, he has found something in which to put his faith."   
  
Miss Parker lit up a cigarette, "Spare me."   
  
"Jarod's mother and sister have disappeared from him, Miss Parker," Sydney said earnestly, "Alone, he is dealing with his brother's death. I'm worried about him. This," he indicated the numerous information papers, "may actually be a good coping mechanism. For many, belief in something beyond this world is a source of comfort."   
  
Miss Parker pointed at Sydney with her cigarette, "It's a delusion, Syd."   
  
"It wasn't to your mother," he said softly and she shot him an acidic look, but he continued, "and it's not to me, not anymore." The last part he said almost to himself. A few months previously he had gone to confession for the first time in over thirty years. But he had not been able to confess all. He could not get Jarod's forgiveness and he did not believe God would forgive him either. In truth, Sydney was afraid to ask Him for it. "We never gave Jarod anything to believe in," Sydney said somberly.   
  
Miss Parker looked to the computer expert, "Broots, I want you to analyze this information. See if there are any patterns or clues to Jarod's whereabouts."   
  
Broots nodded and started to gather up the papers. Miss Parker picked up a card from among them. An image of a man pierced with arrows and a saintly glow around his head decorated one side of the card. Miss Parker flipped it over.   
  
"Saint Sebastian's Church," she read then put the card back down on the coffee table and slid it across to Sydney. "If you're going to start feeling riddled with guilt, Syd, I don't want to hear it." She sucked on her cigarette and allowed the smoke to slowly curl from her nose and parted lips before adding, "Maybe you should go tell someone who actually cares." The comment was harsh, crueler than Miss Parker had intended. But of course she didn't recant. She never recanted.   
  
Sydney reached out and picked up the card. He studied the image of Saint Sebastian for a moment and then flipped the card over. A biblical message was printed on back, meant as a pocket inspiration, but to Sydney, it meant more. The message read: 'The Lord also will be a refuge for the oppressed, a refuge in times of trouble. Psalm 9:9'.   
  
"Maybe I should, Parker, maybe I should."   
  
=-=-=   
  
Father Juan Valdez was sitting writing a letter at the desk in the church office when he heard a soft knock on the door. Looking up, he called, "Come in."   
  
The door opened slowly and a tall, dark haired man poked his head inside and said, "I hope I am not interrupting you, Father."   
  
Recognizing him, Father Valdez smiled in greeting and said, "Jarod! Come in, sit down." He gestured to one of the chairs opposite his desk. Jarod entered the office and sat down in one of the offered chairs.   
  
"What can I help you with?" Father Valdez asked.   
  
Jarod was quiet for a moment and then said, "I have been wondering, Father, about forgiveness. There are people in my life who have hurt me, but I still care for them. Part of me wants to hurt them back, but part of me wants to forgive them and to help them."   
  
Father Valdez nodded and folded his hands on the desk, "And what do you think each of your possible choices might accomplish?"   
  
Jarod smiled sadly, "I realize hurting them back would accomplish little beyond showing them my anger, but I still feel the desire to do it."   
  
"Of course you do, Jarod, you're human. And you're right, revenge would do little to ease your frustration, or theirs."   
  
"But if I forgive them, am I telling them what they did to me, what they are still doing to me is okay?"   
  
"No, Jarod, they are still accountable for their actions. God will hold them accountable and they will have to face that one day. Forgiveness will help you cease from your own resentment. It will lift a great load from your heart."   
  
Looking down at his hands in his lap, Jarod whispered, "I wish it was an easy thing to do."   
  
Father Valdez smiled gently, "Give yourself time... a lifetime if you need it, but I don't think you will." Jarod glanced back up at the priest, the suffering in his eyes unmasked. Father Valdez's brow creased in concern, "What happened to you, Jarod, that you could be in such pain?"   
  
Jarod drummed his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair.   
  
"You needn't tell me if..."   
  
"No," Jarod said, "I want to tell you."   
  
And he did. The priest quietly listened as Jarod told him about his abduction as a child, about his life in the Centre, about Miss Parker, about Sydney, and about Kyle. When Jarod had finished speaking, he watched Father Valdez, wondering whether he would believe the story. For his own part, Father Valdez sat in silence, staring at Jarod, face unreadable. Finally, he whispered, "Mi Dios."   
  
"They are still after me, Father. They stole me from my family, used me, killed my brother, and they are still after me."   
  
"It is a horrible thing, Jarod."   
  
"I try to help others, to atone for all those who were hurt as a result of the things I did for the Centre."   
  
"You are not responsible for what they made you do. You did not know what the Centre did with their information. It is a good thing what you are doing now. God has given you a gift and you have used it to help the less fortunate."   
  
"My brother also had a gift, but the Centre turned him into a killer. If God loves, why did that happen to Kyle? There are many things I can understand, but I cannot understand that."   
  
"Jarod, I can't know what God is doing or why things happen certain ways. No one but the Almighty has those answers. But your brother had a purpose too. There is not much worse in this world then trying to twist the beliefs of another. Your brother was taught to hate the world and those who taught that to him will have to answer for their acts. Christ said, 'And whoever welcomes a little child like this in my name welcomes me. But if anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.'"   
  
"Matthew chapter eighteen verses five and six," Jarod said.   
  
"You know the scriptures well then? Believe that they hold truths."   
  
Jarod reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a small Bible. "It was my mother's," he said, "I read it so that I could try to understand this part of her," he paused, "I worry so much about my mother and my sister. I lay in bed at night fearing that the Centre will find them. I can't stop thinking about Kyle either; his death keeps me awake at night. I don't know how to react to it. I try not to think about it, but it's always there."   
  
"I think you should take some time, Jarod, just for yourself. You will have to think about it, and it will not be easy."   
  
"But how?" Jarod's voice was broken, "Where can I go that they won't not find me? Where can I find anyone else who will understand?" Jarod looked down at his watch. 9:00 pm. "Even now, I can't stay and finish talking to you. And I know I shall have to leave New York soon."   
  
Father Valdez rose from his chair and rounded the desk. He placed a comforting hand on Jarod's shoulder, "I know a place. Let me make a few phone calls, Jarod. Come see me again before you leave the city."   
  
Jarod looked up at the priest, "Thank you, Father. I will."   
  
=-=-=   
  
Sydney slid into one of the pews furthest away from other people sitting quietly in the church praying and contemplating. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was a few minutes after nine o' clock. If he had interpreted Jarod's message correctly, Jarod would come at nine minutes after the hour. Sydney directed his gaze to the cross hanging on the wall behind the altar. He stared at the image of Christ twisted in pain from his wounds, dying for the sins of all people. He looked away from the image of the crucifixion and down at his own hands, which he had loosely folded as if preparing to pray. His hands shook slightly. God, how long had it been since he had prayed? Too long, maybe. Locking his fingers tightly together, Sydney brought them to his forehead as he bent forward slightly. For a few moments, he simply breathed and then softly recited the simple prayer that meant comfort to so many people as it had once meant to him.   
  
"Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us... " A mesh of guilt snared his voice, "forgive us..." He could not continue.   
  
From behind him, a familiar voice whispered, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen."   
  
Sydney did not turn around, but he did speak a name, "Jarod."   
  
"They say that prayer can heal body and soul in ways medicine can't. Do you think that's true?"   
  
Sydney turned around to look at Jarod's face and into his quizzical eyes, "I don't know, Jarod."   
  
Jarod's expression turned into one of disappointment, "I was hoping that you would." He crossed his arms and leaned forward on the back of the pew Sydney sat in.   
  
Always the analyst, Sydney asked, "Were you hoping that prayer could help you deal with the death of..."   
  
"No!" Jarod said angrily and then took a deep breath, calming himself and forcing his voice to a quieter pitch, "No, I don't want to talk about that, Sydney."   
  
"Then what?"   
  
"I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness, and about your soul and my soul," Jarod unfolded his arms and lifted something out of his lap, a Bible. "I've read it several times. It says I should bless the ones that curse me; that I should pray for the ones that use and persecute me. It's all very strange." The tone in Jarod's voice was dry, as if the topic were one of a purely clinical interest. He held the Bible in front of himself and looked at it sternly. His gaze softened and he lowered the Bible to his lap and then looked into Sydney's eyes with his own gentled with emotion, "And yet, stranger still, I want to believe it." He let his fingers brush over the cover of the Bible in his lap.   
  
"Why do you want that, Jarod? What makes you want to believe?" Sydney asked with curiosity and a touch of concern.   
  
"Because," Jarod looked down at the book in his lap, cherishing it with his eyes, "Because it was my mother's. Because these were her beliefs. Because I want to know how it feels to believe the things she did, to really believe them." He again looked up, "What do you believe in, Sydney?"   
  
Sydney snorted softly and a sorrowful smile tugged at the corners of his lips, "I don't know. I used to believe in God, then I believed in the Centre, now... now I just don't know."   
  
"Do you believe in me?"   
  
Without hesitating, Sydney answered, "I have always believed in you, Jarod."   
  
"But as what? As a test subject? A project? A file? Was I ever really a human being? Someone with a soul?"   
  
Sydney turned away from Jarod and sat facing the front of the church, "I don't know how to answer that, Jarod. I asked for your forgiveness once, I would ask for it again."   
  
He heard Jarod rise behind him, "And as much as I have been thinking about it, I still can't give it to you, Sydney," a mournful bitterness weighed down his words, "And that is your cross to bear... as well as mine." Jarod slid out of the pew and walked away.   
  
Sydney did not look back. Perhaps the things that he had done were unforgivable and he himself could never be forgiven. He closed his eyes against the hot, stinging sensation welling up deep inside, threatening to seep out.   
  
=-=-=   
  
Regarding herself in the bathroom mirror, Miss Parker carefully brushed her long, dark hair. When she finished, she gave herself a critical look, then, satisfied, she slid the brush into her overnight bag. She picked up her cigarette from where she had set it down next to the sink and took a satisfied suck of chemicals and smoke.   
  
Miss Parker continued to look at herself. Neither conceit nor narcissism compelled her, but rather an evaluative inquiry. She looked just like her mother, that's what everyone told her; that's what she saw in photographs. Same nose, same lips, same cheekbones. All just like Catherine Parker. Through the veil of cigarette smoke, Miss Parker could see her mother's face in the mirror, perhaps a colder expression, but definitely her mother's face.   
  
But not her mother's eyes.   
  
Mama's eyes were kind and friendly. Miss Parker did not have time to be kind, did not want to make friends. She did not care if people respected her or not, they just had to fear her. Her eyes were Daddy's eyes. Calculating. Deceptive. Nothing like her mother's.   
  
She retrieved a different container from her bag, a bottle of pills, for her ulcer. That was another thing she could thank the Centre for. Her job had led her to a rather unhealthy level of stress and frequent diet of only cigarettes and coffee. Her father always pushed her to work harder though, move ahead, and climb the ladder to the top. So she'd gotten a gun, learned how to use it, trained in security, and began her ascent. From security she had moved to corporate. She was Daddy's little heir to the corporate throne. It was an inheritance she wasn't sure she wanted.   
  
But every time she thought about leaving the Centre, Miss Parker realized she had nowhere to go. She had grown up at the Centre; it was all she knew. Her father worked there, her mother had died there, and she herself had been born there. All the people she knew belonged to the Centre. If she left, even if it were possible, she would be alone in the world. Completely alone.   
  
That thought scared her.   
  
Whether she liked it or not, Miss Parker had ties to all the people she knew. Ties that she could not bring herself undo. She could never just walk away from the Centre: her father, Sydney, or even Broots. In many ways they needed her, but in more ways, which she could not admit to anyone, Miss Parker desperately needed them.   
  
That thought irritated her.   
  
And then there was Jarod. He had walked away, fleeing the control of the Centre. But he hadn't been able to stop himself from looking back over his shoulder. Like her, Jarod had ties he could not unbind, to his past, to Sydney, and to her. And so he baited them endlessly, communicating every so often, leading them on one chase after another, sending clues about her past but never really any answers. "And aggravating my ulcer," she muttered to herself taking one final drag from her cigarette and tossing it in the toilet. Yawning, she exited the bathroom and went to her bedroom deciding that staying awake all night would not make the chase come to an end any faster.   
  
=-=-=   
  
The next morning found Jarod standing in front of the apartment of the Delanie family. He felt that perhaps it was rude to simply show up, but he shrugged and knocked on the door. To his surprise, a man answered. He was short with thinning blond hair and sharp blue eyes. "You aren't selling anything are you? 'Cause this apartment has a no soliciting policy."   
  
"Er, no," Jarod said, "Does Rose Delanie live here?"   
  
"What's it to you? She isn't interested in doing interviews," the man said defensively.   
  
"I'm not a reporter," Jarod assured, "My name is Jarod. I work for Delanie-May. I was just hired on. I only wanted to come by and introduce myself," he paused and pulled something from his inside jacket pocket. "And give her this card expressing my condolences about Shawn Delanie's death."   
  
The man reached for the card and Jarod handed it to him. He looked with speculation at Jarod and then decided that he believed him. The man smiled, opening the door wider and extending a hand. Jarod took the hand and the man shook it heartily. "I'm Brian Delanie, Shawn's cousin. Why don't you come in and have some coffee?"   
  
Jarod returned the smile and nodded his head. "Thanks," he said, entering the apartment after Brian Delanie.   
  
=-=-=   
  
"Good morning Miss Parker," Sydney said as he entered the kitchen after passing the sweepers who were playing checkers in the dining room.   
  
"And what's so good about it, Syd?" She snipped, cranky from a poor night's sleep. Make-up had done nothing to cover the dark circles under her eyes, which seemed to be accentuated by her black pants suit.   
  
"Force of habit that I said it, Miss Parker, because I suppose there is nothing good about it," Sydney answered. All things considered, he thought that Miss Parker looked as if she were going to a funeral.   
  
Miss Parker looked Sydney up and down. He seemed in a low mood and rumpled in appearance. "Tell me those aren't the same clothes you had on last night. When did you get back?"   
  
"Late, I needed to think, " was all he said.   
  
"What you need, Syd, is a shower," Miss Parker commented.   
  
Ignoring her slight, Sydney asked, trying to sound a bit more cheerful, "Where's Broots?"   
  
"He went out to get some pastries for breakfast," Miss Parker replied, making no attempt herself to lighten the mood, as she lit a cigarette.   
  
Just then they heard the front door open and slam back shut. They heard Broots greet the sweepers and they both paused to glance out of the open kitchen door. Broots handed the sweepers one of two white paper bags he was carrying.   
  
"Speak of the bald little devil himself," Miss Parker muttered and then resumed nursing her cigarette.   
  
Broots bustled into the kitchen carrying the other bag. "Morning, Syd," he said.   
  
"Good morning Broots," Sydney replied and then, glancing at Miss Parker, he added, "Not that there's anything good about it."   
  
Broots snorted, amused, "I won't deny that. First, there's all this rain and it's like eighty degrees outside. Man, I hate humidity. Second, my search didn't come across *anything* remotely related to a pattern or link to connect any of the information Jarod sent us. Third, the bakery was all out of breakfast claws." Pausing, Broots glanced at the kitchen's coffee pot and then at Miss Parker, "I thought you were going to make coffee?"   
  
"What am I, Broots? Your secretary?"   
  
"Well, no, of course not, I just thought..."   
  
"Don't think," she said sharply, "Just let the computer do it for you."   
  
Broots opened the paper bag and took out a muffin. He offered the bag to the other two who both refused it in turn, "But that's the problem, Miss Parker, I don't know what to tell the computer to do. It's analyzed all the information I've fed it, but it has come up with nothing."   
  
Miss Parker glanced contemptuously at the machine sitting on the kitchen table, "So did it *do* anything?"   
  
"Beyond compiling data about the places and religions in all those pamphlets and flyers, not much."   
  
"Can you print out all this compiled information for me?"   
  
"Sure, Miss Parker, what for?"   
  
"It looks like we'll be using your brain after all," she said, "The three of us are going to go through all this information the old fashioned way." She rubbed her eyes, still tired, "And Broots, make a pot of coffee."   
  
=-=-=   
  
"I was here visiting when it happened," Brian Delanie told Jarod as he handed him a newly refilled mug. Jarod sat it down on the kitchen table. "Rose took it pretty rough so I decided to stay and help out with the girls."   
  
"Where were you visiting from?"   
  
"New Hampshire, actually, but I am thinking of moving here. I am a construction worker, so I can find work wherever I go. I'm glad that right now I am able to be here for Rose," Brian looked down into his own coffee mug and said softly, "I know what it's like to lose family." He looked back up at Jarod, who was listening attentively, "You see my own wife and daughter died in a plane crash a couple of years ago."   
  
"I'm so sorry to hear that," Jarod replied, and then, empathetically, "I've lost family too."   
  
Brian nodded, "I love spending time with Jane and Maria, each reminds me in so many ways of Simone, my own daughter, and of Shawn."   
  
"Were you close to Shawn?"   
  
"We were as kids, lived on the same block, but not as adults. He had his life and I had mine. After the plane crash, I pulled away from the rest of my family almost entirely. I pushed him away to the point of yelling that I never wanted to see any of my family again. It was a difficult time. Coming to visit Shawn and his family was bringing us closer together, but then he died, and," Brian paused, "Perhaps it will sound terrible to you when I say this, but I feel like I now have a stronger connection to Rose and the girls, like this forced me to form a bond with them, and I am grateful for that bond."   
  
"I don't think that sounds terrible," Jarod said, "This has been hard on all of you, I imagine, and so you drew together in support." Jarod looked around the kitchen. It was small, but practical. Pictures were stuck to the refrigerator with magnets. A calendar was tacked to a bulletin board that hung over the phone. Jarod's eyes scanned upcoming activities: Rose: Grocery shopping. Brian: Cupcakes for Jane's class. Rose: Tire rotation - Brian's car. Brian: Repair bookshelf. Brian: learn subway system! Rose: Dentist Appointment. A photograph was pinned next to the calendar of a man, a woman, and two small girls in front of a Christmas tree. Jarod got up from the kitchen table and moved in for a closer look. The man had strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and a laughing smile. Jarod recognized him from newspaper photographs as Shawn Delanie. The woman had short brown hair, hazel eyes, and a broad smile, and the twin girls looked like their mother, but with long hair in pigtails. Jarod asked, "Is this the family?"   
  
"Yeah," Brian answered, "From last Christmas. I didn't even send them a card last Christmas." He shook his head sadly, "You know Shawn's birthday was yesterday? After hearing that robberies were on the rise, I bought him a gun to protect himself with? Can you believe it? If I had only given it to him when I arrived..."   
  
Jarod's mind snapped to attention at the mention of the gun. "You got him a gun? What happened to it?"   
  
Brian regarded Jarod curiously, "Still locked in the trunk of my car." His voice became defensive, "You don't think that I..."   
  
"Oh, no, no," Jarod assured, holding up a hand, "No, I was just worried, you know, with two young kids."   
  
Nodding, Brian said, "I never brought it into the apartment, I never meant for Shawn to either."   
  
Jarod looked up at the clock on the microwave, "Oh geez," he said, "I'm going to be late for my shift. Please do give Mrs. Delanie that card and my regards. I hope to meet her soon." He set down his mug and offered his hand to Brian.   
  
Brian shook Jarod's hand, "It was good to meet you, Jarod. Rose was actually going to be down at Delanie-May headquarters later this morning, but if you don't run into her, I'll be sure to let her know that you stopped by."   
  
"Thank you," Jarod returned, and then added with a smile before leaving, "And thanks for the coffee, it was much better than my own."   
  
=-=-=   
  
Jarod's shift actually didn't start until eleven, so he had a couple of hours to spare. Hours that he needed. Walking up and down the rows of cars in the apartment complex's parking garage, Jarod looked for New Hampshire plates. So far he had located a pickup truck with plates from New Hampshire, but Brian had said he owned a car.   
  
From the corner of his eye, Jarod spotted another New Hampshire plate on a black Ford Taurus. "Bingo... I hope," he said to himself. He approached to car and looked inside the windows. He saw a map sitting on the front passenger seat and plastic mug that read, "Sharpe's Construction". Deciding there was a strong possibility that this was Brian Delanie's car, Jarod approached the trunk. Reaching inside his jacket pocket, he pulled out a pen, and disassembled it, using some of the disassembled parts to pick the trunk lock. He opened the trunk and looked inside. It was empty except for a few more maps and a roadside emergency kit. Jarod puzzled for a moment and then reached inside the trunk to pull away the flap that concealed the spare tire. There was no tire in the compartment. Instead, Jarod saw a wadded up piece of cloth. He picked it up. It was a shirt, covered in dried blood. A work identification for Sharpe's Construction was clipped to the collar and Brian Delanie's face smiled up from underneath the laminated plastic. Jarod looked back down into the space and saw the gun that had been hidden under the shirt. He picked up the gun with the shirt and looked at it. Nine millimeter. He sniffed the barrel and inhaled the pungent scent of gunpowder. Recently fired.   
  
Hearing a car approaching in the garage, Jarod quickly set the gun down and turned around. He smiled at the driver in a neighborly way, but the driver did not even glance at him. Relieved, Jarod quickly turned his attention back to the evidence in front of him. He took a moment to consider his actions and then removed his jacket to wrap the gun and bloody shirt inside. After replacing the cover of the tire of compartment, he slammed the trunk shut with his free hand, and walked away.   
  
=-=-=   
  
"Hey, Jarod, you're early!" Sheila commented as Jarod entered the office.   
  
Jarod smiled at her, but let his gaze drift to a woman on the phone in Curtis May's otherwise empty office. He recognized her as Rose Delanie. "You know what they say," Jarod said, looking back at Sheila at the dispatch desk, "The early bird gets the worm."   
  
"Well, pickings this morning are slim, Jarod, they usually are at this time of day. They'll pick up around noon, with people getting off for lunch." Sheila glanced to the woman in Curtis May's office, "You could always offer Mrs. Delanie a ride. She usually takes the subway, but as long as you're here..."   
  
"I think I will do that, Sheila," he said and watched as Rose was about to exit the office. Jarod quickly moved to open the door for her. "Mrs. Delanie?"   
  
Rose looked him up and down, "Yes? You are?"   
  
"My name is Jarod, I've only been working here a short time. I haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting you," he said, extending a hand.   
  
She accepted and gave him a firm handshake, "It's nice to meet you Jarod, I'm sure I will be seeing you around."   
  
She moved to go past him, but he halted her. "Actually, I wanted to see if I could offer you a ride home, or to wherever you are going. It's raining outside after all, and I would hate for you to have to walk to the subway and ride with all those drenched people in this feverish heat." He smiled politely.   
  
"Um, alright, why not," she said and smiled back.   
  
"Great, I'm in cab seven, I just need to grab the keys. I'll meet you in the garage?"   
  
She nodded and left the main office. Jarod turned to Sheila who was getting out the keys and sign-out sheet. "You're always monitoring the emergency frequency, right Sheila?"   
  
"Of course," she said, "Monitoring and recording."   
  
"Great!" Jarod commented as he signed for the keys, "See you soon."   
  
"Yeah, have a good one, Jarod," she replied, smiling at him as he left, though her voice was a little puzzled.   
  
=-=-=   
  
"Oh, no, Jarod! You've missed the turn!" Rose said turning her head to look back at the corner where Jarod should have turned.   
  
"I know," Jarod said to her as he reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror to look at her face. He pulled the cab into an alley between an apartment complex and a restaurant and put the car in park. Turning off the windshield wipers, he said, "I thought we should talk."   
  
He saw the expression on her face turn confused and angry, "Talk? Talk about what?"   
  
He turned to face her, letting his hand switch the radio frequency and flipping the broadcast button to ON. "About your husband's murder," Jarod answered.   
  
Rose shifted herself to try and open the doors, but they would not unlock from the inside. She looked wildly out the windows, but, because of the rain, there was no one outside she could call for. "What the Hell do you want?" She demanded of Jarod, "Let me out!"   
  
"I can't do that Rose," Jarod said and reached under his seat, pulling out the nine millimeter he had taken from the trunk of Brian Delanie's car. He pointed it at her.   
  
"What are you doing? Please, stop! You can't kill me!" She exclaimed in disbelief.   
  
"Is that what Shawn said when you pointed this gun at him? Did he beg for his life? Did the man who loved you even have time to say anything at all before you pulled the trigger?!"   
  
"You're insane!" She cried, trying desperately at the doors again.   
  
Jarod released the safety on the gun and Rose Delanie froze when she heard the click.   
  
"Jarod, don't do this. What do you want from me?!"   
  
"I want the truth, Mrs. Delanie," he growled, "I want to hear how you murdered your husband, the father of your children! I want to hear how you were going to pin it all on your husband's cousin, Brian!" He held the gun steadily, his eyes narrowing as he gazed at her down the barrel. "It's going to be very messy to clean this up," he said.   
  
"All right! All right!" She said, fixing her eyes on the gun pointed at her, "I ordered a cab that night knowing the area where Shawn was working. I knew Brian had bought Shawn a gun, and I took it," she paused, glancing into his eyes with fright in her own.   
  
"Keep going," he ordered.   
  
"I wore one of Brian's shirts. Afterwards, I put it and the gun in the trunk of Brian's car."   
  
"And you are supposed to take Brian's car in for a tire rotation this week. When they open the tire compartment to find the key that unlocks the wheels, they would find this evidence instead."   
  
"Yes," she said. "I can pay you to keep this quiet Jarod, if that's what you want," she said, placating.   
  
"Just tell me one more thing, Mrs. Delanie... why?"   
  
She snorted, almost a laugh, though her voice was full of animosity, "I wanted out. The bastard would never give me an easy divorce." She looked out the window nearest to her and asked, "How much do you want?"   
  
He smiled unhappily and answered softly, "The truth is not for sale." He picked up the handset to the radio, "Did you get all that, Sheila?"   
  
"Loud and clear, Jarod," a woman's voice crackled over the radio, "Give me your location, the police are standing by."   
  
"The alley, between Naro's Bistro and City Life Apartments."   
  
"Copy that, Jarod, the police are on their way."   
  
Rose Delanie watched him; her jaw clenched tightly together, her eyes full of hate. Jarod regarded her sorrowfully, "You destroyed your own family, Rose. I don't understand that. I don't understand that at all."   
  
=-=-=   
  
Broots stretched and yawned, drawing Miss Parker's attention.   
  
"Don't have enough to do, Broots?" She asked.   
  
Broots glanced from her to the piles of paper in front of him. "Just the opposite, Miss Parker," he said.   
  
"Then keep on it!" She snapped, trying to keep her own weariness from showing. She, Broots, and Sydney had been going through the compiled data all day, only to come up with nothing. They had even enlisted the help of the sweepers at one point, even though, as Miss Parker said, they weren't hired for their brains. But the sweepers had given up the research and had occupied their time with more card playing in the dining room.   
  
"Parker," Sydney said. She looked at him and he continued, "I think that we could all use a break."   
  
"Fine!" She exclaimed tossing her hands in the air, "We're not getting anywhere anyway." She was glad though, to have an excuse to sit back from the work.   
  
"Great!" Broots said, and rubbed his hands together as he stood up, "I bought some Ritz crackers and E-Z Cheez, anyone feel like a snack?"   
  
"Just ice water for me, Broots, thanks," Sydney said.   
  
Broots looked expectantly at Miss Parker. She raised an eyebrow, "E-Z Cheez, Broots? I don't eat anything that has the word 'artificial' in front of it and the words 'food product' after it."   
  
"So... ice water?" Broots asked.   
  
Miss Parker nodded and told him, with her eyes, to get going, which he did.   
  
Turning to Sydney, she asked, "Do you think this is just a dead end, Syd, or are we just not clever enough to find our way through the maze your lab rat has put us in?"   
  
"There's a connection here somewhere, Parker, rest assured. In time, we'll find it."   
  
"Yeah, and by then Jarod will be gone and..."   
  
They were interrupted by a loud whoop from the kitchen, and Broots came bursting into the living room holding the brown coffee can Jarod had sent. Curious, the two sweepers had risen and stood in the doorway between the dining room and the living room.   
  
"Miss Parker! Sydney! I figured it out!" He set the can down solidly and triumphantly on the coffee table and began to fish around the piles of paper, finding what he wanted, he pulled one of the papers out, only to have Miss Parker snatch it from him. Her eyes scanned the paper quickly. Sydney stood up and came to stand behind her looking over her shoulder.   
  
"What am I looking for, Broots?" she demanded.   
  
"Look at the name of the senior priest of Saint Sebastian's," he told her.   
  
"Father Juan Valdez... so?" She looked up at him expectantly as did Sydney.   
  
Broots patted the lid of the coffee can, "Colombian Coffee, if you can by coffee in a can, chances are the beans are from Colombian Coffee. Juan Valdez is the mascot! Well, him and the donkey."   
  
"Saint Sebastian's?" Miss Parker said surprised, "But isn't that..."   
  
"The church you gave me the card to last night," Sydney interjected. "I even went there! My God, Jarod's been under our noses this whole time!"   
  
Miss Parker rose and looked around at all of them, "Let's move, people!"   
  
=-=-=   
  
"I'm still shocked," Father Valdez said, shaking his head, "And angry. Rose Delanie killed Shawn." A troubled expression flickered across his face, "I shall have to go see her."   
  
Jarod regarded the priest with surprise, "To what end?"   
  
"She can still be forgiven, Jarod," Father Valdez said, "Can't you see that? But only if she wants it, only if she is sincere about it. I know Shawn would want me to try and save her."   
  
"I hope that you can," Jarod whispered.   
  
"As do I," Father Valdez said as he opened a desk drawer and pulled an envelope out, handing it to Jarod.   
  
"What's this?" Jarod looked at it and opened it up, "A bus ticket to Mexico?"   
  
Father Valdez nodded, "I told you there was a place you could go where you would have time to think, to try and come to terms with your losses. There is a monastery in Cuernavaca, I have already sent word that a friend of mine would be arriving, and not to ask him too many questions, because he already has many to ask of himself."   
  
Jarod looked at Father Valdez, emotions in his eyes, "Thank you, Father, for everything."   
  
"No thanks are necessary, Jarod. I wish that there were more that I could do, and I will pray that you will find some measure of peace in Cuernavaca, and hope that you will come to understand your pain."   
  
Jarod swallowed and he kept tears in check "I have been thinking, if the others, Miss Parker, Sydney, come for me..." Jarod's pager went off suddenly and he pulled it off of his belt clip to look at it. "They're already on their way, I had someone keeping an eye out for me." Father Valdez nodded and Jarod continued his previous line of thought, "When they come, I would like you to give them something for me."   
  
"Of course, anything," Father Valdez replied.   
  
=-=-=   
  
The doors of Saint Sebastian's flew open and Miss Parker stormed in followed by Sydney and the two sweepers while Broots waited in the car. A gust of drizzle and humid wind blew in with them through the open doors, causing votive candles to flicker or extinguish. The church was relatively empty, but a priest, about middle aged with tan skin and graying black hair rose from one of the pews and approached them.   
  
Father Yuban himself, Miss Parker mused, but out loud demanded of him, "Where's Jarod?"   
  
"He's not here any more," the priest said calmly.   
  
"But he was here, so *where* did he go?" She said the words slowly as if to speak any faster might push her temper past the pressure point of rational communication.   
  
"I can't tell you."   
  
She moved in close to the priest, placing a finger at the base of his throat just below his collar, "Don't think that *this* will protect you, Father Valdez."   
  
"Miss Parker!" Sydney exclaimed with hushed urgency, placing a hand on her arm to express his objection to her treatment of the priest.   
  
Miss Parker shrugged him off, "We need to know, Sydney, and if this old goat can tell us then..."   
  
"Jarod is no longer here," Father Valdez stated firmly, "And I will not betray his confidence and lead you to him. He did have something he wanted to give you though." He looked hard into Miss Parker's eyes, "If you cannot restrain yourself, then you will leave with nothing."   
  
Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath and a step back, Miss Parker settled her frustrated nerves. She opened her eyes and offered him an icy, sweet smile.   
  
"That is better," Father Valdez said gently, and walked back to the pew he had been sitting in to retrieve something left behind. Miss Parker and Sydney followed. "He wanted you to have this," Father Valdez said to Miss Parker, picking up small rectangular package wrapped in brown paper. The words 'very personal' were written neatly on the paper. "He said it would bring you hope, something you need."   
  
Miss Parker seized the package from the priest's hand, "As much as I love getting little gifts from Jarod," she said, words saturated in sarcasm, "What would bring me the most hope is finding him and possibly killing him."   
  
Unexpectedly, Father Valdez reached his right hand out and placed it on Miss Parker's left shoulder, "You are so full of anger; I will pray that you find peace." For a moment Miss Parker looked startled, and inside she felt her heart moved, but her usual facial expression hastily frosted into place. Turning away from the priest, she hissed, "Save your breath." Looking at her older companion, she ordered, "Let's go, Syd."   
  
"Give me a moment, Parker, please," Sydney said glancing at her and then to Father Valdez.   
  
Miss Parker considered for a moment then acquiesced, snapping, "All right, but make it quick." She headed for the door, remaining just inside to wait for Sydney but motioning to the sweepers to wait outside.   
  
"Did Jarod seem well when you last saw him, Father?" Sydney asked sincerely.   
  
"He was in pain. He will need time to heal," the priest paused and considered Sydney's saddened expression, "Jarod wanted me to give you something too, just a word: 'Someday.'"   
  
Sydney nodded and crossed his arms. Looking down to the floor, he swallowed against the choking pain welling in his throat, "I can live with that."   
  
Father Valdez placed a hand on Sydney's shoulder and Sydney looked back up at him.   
  
"God will forgive you as well if you can find it within yourself to open up to Him," Sydney pulled away from the priest's touch, putting a distance between them.   
  
Not sure what to say and not trusting himself to say much, Sydney said hoarsely, "Thank you for the message."   
  
"Syd!" Miss Parker exclaimed impatiently and louder than she should have in the quiet peace of the church, "Let's get out of here," she growled with a little less volume.   
  
"Pray, Sydney," Father Valdez whispered, "It will help."   
  
"Good-bye, Father," Sydney said and turned away.   
  
Father Valdez watched Miss Parker and Sydney exit Saint Sebastian's and then closed his eyes and whispered a quiet prayer for them.   
  
=-=-=   
  
At home, Sydney folded back the covers of his bed preparing to get in. He sat down on the bed but hesitated to lie down and get under the covers as the words of the priest at Saint Sebastian's echoed in his mind. Making up his mind, Sydney slipped off of the bed and onto his knees. He folded his hands on top of the bed, closed his eyes, and bowing his head.   
  
"Now I lay me down to sleep," he whispered, "And pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." He opened his eyes and looked up, not at the ceiling, but to the infinite and indiscernible world beyond, "Forgive me, Lord, please." He looked back down, "Amen."   
  
Emotionally and physically exhausted from the stay in New York and the trip back to Blue Cove, Sydney finally climbed into bed and tucked himself in under the covers. And he slept with more peace than he could remember having in a long time.   
  
=-=-=   
  
Jarod's eyes gazed vacantly out the window of the bus, his head pressed against the cool glass. As the bus traveled through the sprawling countryside, all he could see through the rivulets of rainwater was the dark night and an occasional exit with a gas station and greasy spoons diner. It was as if he was looking at the tearful loneliness outside, only to see it staring right back at the same feeling he held inside. Jarod sighed and leaned back in his seat, but didn't close his eyes.   
  
It would be days before he reached Cuernavaca; he would have to sleep eventually. In sleep, all Jarod's demons could come to him unabated, and nothing he could do would drive them away. He did not always remember his nightmares, and he was grateful for that. More often than not, Jarod would wake up to find his clothes sweat soaked and his lungs panting for breath. He did not want to remember why.   
  
Glancing around at the few other passengers, Jarod felt self-conscious. Perhaps he would stop at a motel a couple of nights along the way and crash in a room for a few hours and catch different buses or trains to continue his journey. At least then his night terrors would not attract the attention of others. He would not be able to explain them to anyone; he could not even explain them to himself. Jarod wondered if Kyle had had nightmares, surely he would have, and surely they would have been far worse than his own. He shuddered, trying to shake the images of what his littler brother's nightmares might have been like. Images of Raines hissing threats and misleading assurances, images of a little boy firing a furious barrage of bullets at pictures of Catherine Parker, and angry whisperings of "I decide who lives or dies." Jarod shuddered again.   
  
Determined to keep himself awake and distracted for as long as possible, Jarod reached into the back pocket of the seat in front of him and retrieved a worn magazine left behind by other passengers. Flipping through, his eyes caught an article titled "Dia De Los Muertos - Celebrating the Deceased". What had Father Valdez hoped for him? That he would come to understand his pain.   
  
"I hope so too," Jarod whispered to himself and began to read, not yet realizing that the rain had dissipated and hopeful stars glittered in the clearing sky.   
  
=-=-=   
  
Miss Parker threw back the covers of her bed and then slid in, nestling herself comfortably between the covers. She reached up to switch off her bedside lamp, but something stopped her. "Damn it," she muttered and eyed her briefcase where the package Jarod had left for her at Saint Sebastian's poked out. She had shoved it away, intending to open it when she got home, and had forgotten about it in her weariness. It was probably just some joke or gibe designed to make her look bad. The man had, after all, once depicted her as one of the Three Stooges. She stared at the package. The package did nothing. Her eyes narrowed on it. It failed to crumble up under her gaze.   
  
"Damn it!" She exclaimed and, pushing the covers back, she got out of bed. Miss Parker stormed over to her briefcase, yanked out the gift, and tore away the brown paper to reveal a book. She turned the book over and looked at its cover. It was made of aged tan leather with faded gold leaf letters printed neatly in the upper middle. She traced the letters with one of her well-manicured fingernails. Holy Bible. She opened the book up and suddenly brought one of her hands to her mouth. Her breath trembled slightly as she looked at the inside cover. A small ex libris card was glued firmly to the inside, with the name Catherine scrawled neatly on it. It was her mother's Bible. Just below the card, scrawled in the same handwriting were the words, "The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul."   
  
A tear trickled down her right cheek. As she wiped it away she whispered, "Mama, I don't know that my soul is worth preserving." She set the Bible down on her nightstand and discarded of the paper Jarod had wrapped it in. Getting back into bed, she picked up the book and opened her nightstand drawer to stow it inside when a small, thin envelope slipped out from deep within its pages. She picked up the envelope and closed the drawer. The envelope read, "Miss Parker," in Jarod's handwriting. Curious she slowly opened it and pulled out the note inside. She read it to herself.   
  
"I have faith in you. - J."   
  
Miss Parker set the note down on her nightstand and as she turned off her lamp and settled into bed, a faint, hopeful smile quivered across her lips.   
  
=-=-=  
  
The End   
  
=-=-=  
  
Notes:  
  
This was my first Pretender story.  
  
Thank you to my beta readers, Marge and Dede. This is a better story because of them.   
  
The title of this story is drawn from the Bible: "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." (Hebrews 11:1)  
  
Since you've made it this far, I assume you have an opinion. Please feel free to share it by writing a review or e-mailing me at fictionbya@postmark.net. 


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